Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Aurelia
T he din of parlor chatter has faded to a faint buzz. We’ve crowded into one end of the sprawling room, with me and my eleven competitors gathered at the fore of the crowd.
My pulse drums behind my ears as servants carry a procession of equipment into the room. First, a wooden panel some ten-by-ten feet that they lean against the wall. Next, a large, lacquered box of uncertain contents. Then comes a huge longbow and a leather quiver stuffed with arrows.
Other servants have pushed the nearby chairs and tables off to the sides of the room. Marclinus stands in the middle of the open space, swiping his hands together as he peers at his assembled court with apparent satisfaction.
His father has positioned himself off to the side with a clear view of the goings-on. Emperor Tarquin’s mild expression and glinting eyes give away nothing about the test he and his son are about to inflict on us.
Is the imperial heir planning on evaluating our archery skills? Is having a wife who’ll join him competently on a hunt of particular importance to him?
It very well might be. Who knows how varied his priorities are?
I flex my fingers subtly at my side, remembering the feel of the bows I’ve practiced with. As one devoted to the godlen of peace, I don’t have much taste for killing animals for sport, but we held annual hunts by the capital where every creature the nobles brought down was donated to families with little to put on their tables.
I’d hardly call myself an expert markswoman, but I can hit a target well enough.
Lady Rochelle eases up beside me and shoots me a nervous smile. I tip my head to her in return, hoping she finds the gesture reassuring.
If she spends most of her time managing her family’s affairs on an estate farther abroad, surely hunting has come up in her education?
Once we hear exactly what the imperial heir has in mind, I’ll pass on any strategies that occur to me. Rochelle is the only person here who’s shown me any kindness. If I can see her through this trial alongside me, I will.
Marclinus takes his time preparing, pulling on a pair of supple leather gloves and opening the wooden case. A hint of a smirk plays with his full lips, lifting the small scar near the corner. I think he’s enjoying drawing out the tension, making us wonder and worry.
What will it take for him to recognize the horror of this ridiculous competition? Or at least to get bored of it, which might be easier to accomplish ?
He draws something slim and shiny from the case. As he flips it in his hand, the metallic surface flashes in the sunlight.
My gut tightens in recognition. It’s a throwing knife.
Is he testing our abilities with blades as well? They’re hardly typical courtly weapons. I’ve certainly never seen one used in a hunt.
The imperial heir turns toward us, holding the knife at a seemingly careless angle. He cocks his head, his cool gray gaze sliding over us clustered ladies.
His voice comes out in its typical laconic drawl, if a touch curter than usual. “Yesterday many of you spoke of trusting me to lead our empire to greatness. Today you’ll get to prove just how far your trust extends. Each of you will present yourself in front of this wooden panel. I will demonstrate the accuracy of my throws and later my bowmanship. I expect you will not flinch or cower, since naturally you have complete faith that I can avoid wounding you.”
Marclinus gives a brief grin like a baring of teeth. I stare at him, his words sinking in slowly.
He can’t possibly mean?—
He waves his knife toward us. “We’ll go in the opposite order from yesterday, for fairness’s sake. Lady Rochelle, that means you get to do the first honors.”
Rochelle’s face goes sallow, but to her credit, she doesn’t hesitate. I’d imagine she’s no surer than I am whether the imperial heir would take any delay as a sign of doubt and penalize her for it.
She strides over to the panel by the wall.
“Right in the middle,” Marclinus calls over, positioning himself about twenty feet away, directly across from her. “Arms at your sides. Looking straight at me. Stay perfectly still, and you’ll be fine.”
And if she doesn’t?
As he readies himself with the knife, my fingers curl. The nails dig into my palms with tiny nips of pain.
Great God help us, let his aim be as good as he’s boasting. Let my new almost-friend keep her cool.
The room has gone completely silent. I hear the rustle of Marclinus’s sleeve as he jerks his hand forward, the thin hiss of the blade whipping through the air.
The point thuds into the wooden boards just an inch shy of Rochelle’s right elbow. Her expression tics at the impact, and then her jaw clenches.
Marclinus’s grin widens. “Very good.” He selects another knife from the case.
How many of those things is he going to hurl at her?
Three, it turns out, as I watch with a clammy sweat beading on my back. One by her left arm, nearly level with the first. And one so close overtop her head that her curls ripple around it.
Rochelle’s lips purse tight in the same moment, as if she’s clamped them against a shriek.
The imperial heir beckons her back to our side of the room. “Well done. Since Lady Cadenza has been eliminated, it’ll be Lady Giralda’s turn next.”
As the buxom brunette hustles over and a servant collects the knifes for His Imperial Highness, Rochelle returns to my side. A slight tremor runs through her tall frame.
I give her forearm a gentle squeeze to steady her. But the trial isn’t over yet even for her.
There’s still that damned bow resting against the table next to the quiver of arrows.
“Slow, even breaths,” I murmur to her. “Unfocus your eyes if you can, so you don’t even really see him, and picture something calming in front of you.”
She nods and flicks her hand down her body in a hasty three-fingered tap.
If the gods notice her gesture of the divinities, they don’t seem inclined to intervene.
I follow my own advice even now, knowing there are several more ladies to go before it’s my turn. If I can sink into a meditative state before I even step in front of Marclinus’s blades, it’ll be all the easier to maintain the detachment.
Unfortunately, Lady Fausta decides to take the opposite tactic, now that it’s clear what the trial entails.
With a flick of her scarlet hair, she eyes the noblewoman who’s positioned herself in front of the panel and tsks her tongue. “I don’t think she really does trust you, Your Imperial Highness. Look how her hand trembles.”
Giralda tucks her fingers closer to the gauzy drift of her skirts. Her chin, which had been set firmly, quivers instead.
Marclinus twirls his first knife between his fingers, apparently unbothered by Fausta’s attempt at sabotage. “I suppose we’ll see.”
He flings the knife without warning. Giralda flinches as the blade slams into the wood by her shoulder. Then she stiffens her posture even more.
“Let’s have a little more faith than that,” the imperial heir chides teasingly.
Fausta shakes her head, her bright green eyes flashing with triumph. “Such a shame she faltered right from the start.”
My own hands clench against the desire to march over and smack her across her cruel mouth. As if this test isn’t horrible enough without one of us adding to the anguish.
It goes on like that through the procession of potential wives: each displaying herself in front of the increasingly notched panel, Fausta heckling them to rattle their nerves, Marclinus tossing his knives. I descend as deep as I can into my well of inner calm.
Elox watch over me. Help me remain at peace and show no fear.
When it’s my turn to stand before the imperial heir, Fausta lets out a disdainful laugh. “The wild princess looks like she’s marching into battle. I don’t see any loyalty at all.”
Ignoring her, I will my stance to loosen, my expression to stay placid. I gaze straight toward Marclinus, his tall form blurry before my unfocused eyes, and picture the statue of Elox in our main temple back home. The way the godlen’s kindly face tips toward the lamb nestled at his feet. The willow bough draped across his shoulder.
Loyalty. Faith. I have plenty of them, just not for the man with the knives.
The first two blades hit the wood on either side of my upper arms. My breath barely catches. Distantly, I hear Fausta’s voice take on a sharper tone, as if she’s peeved that her previous remarks have had no effect.
“Frigid as those northern cities. Who would want to marry a woman that cold?”
I simply breathe.
The last knife soars over my head. As I step away from the panel, Marclinus smiles. “The princess isn’t easily shaken.”
Fausta can’t say much about that, because it’s her turn now. She approaches the panel with her chin high and endures the onslaught of knives without the slightest wince, although of course it’s easier when no one’s picking at you at the same time .
Then Marclinus reaches for his bow. “Lady Rochelle, we return to you.”
I give her a quick squeeze of her hand and a murmured reminder. “Focus on your breath.”
The imperial heir waves us back with him several more paces so he has more room to shoot. He aims his arrows much as he did his knives—one on either side and one over the head. But the twang of the bowstring and the warble of the fletching through the air make the process all the more unsettling.
Fausta resumes her heckling, but thankfully my coaching appears to have helped Rochelle stay centered. She shivers briefly when the arrows smack into the wood around her, but nothing you could even call a flinch.
And so it goes through the same order, until a willowy lady named Timille approaches the panel.
Her steps are already shaky, her knuckles white where her hands are balled at her sides. Fausta pounces on the visible weakness with malicious glee.
“Look how she’s quaking. How can you stand there and make any claim on our great Imperial Highness when you’re practically falling apart in front of him? He should have you put down right now.”
I’ve held my tongue during her previous jabs, not wanting to provoke her further and fluster the other ladies even more. Now, seeing the gleam of tears welling in Timille’s eyes, I can’t keep silent.
I pitch my voice as soothing and serene as I can while letting it carry across the room. “You can do this. You’ve seen what excellent aim he has. Those arrows won’t touch you.”
Fausta’s head snaps around with a searing glower, but I don’t care. Timille draws in a ragged breath and appears to gird herself at my words .
As the first arrow flies, Fausta lifts her voice again. “You barely belong here in this court, let alone at an emperor’s side. What a pathetic display.”
A tear trickles down Timille’s cheek, and Marclinus makes a scoffing sound. My throat constricts.
“You’re making it through,” I tell her in the same calming tone. “You know you can. Focus on that and not her.”
Emperor Tarquin has shifted his gaze toward me. I don’t glance over at him, but his attention burns into my skin.
Is my intervention a mark in my favor or against me?
Even if it’s the latter, I can’t regret speaking up.
After the third arrow has landed above Timille’s head, she hustles back to our cluster of ladies, swiping at her eyes but uninjured.
My opposition has clearly soured Fausta to me even more. When it’s my turn, she starts up her sneering commentary before I even have a chance to move forward.
“Here comes the ever-so-generous princess. I don’t think she really wants you if she’s so eager to help the rest of us, Your Imperial Highness. She’s probably hoping you’ll send her back to her backwater country since there’s no way she’ll survive here.”
Her jabs bounce right off. I don’t give a shit what that viper thinks of me.
One arrow whines through the air to pierce the wood by my right arm. Marclinus gives a low laugh, but I can’t tell whether he’s mocking me or Fausta for her failure to rattle me. He pulls back the string again?—
Just as he’s releasing it, a sudden crash shatters the quiet of the room.
I’m lucky the imperial heir is as skilled a marksman as he is. The din makes his stance twitch, but the arrow veers only an inch to the side of where he would have been aiming .
The pointed head carves a line through my sleeve and the side of my arm before digging into the wood behind me. Pain flares through my bicep.
I stifle a gasp with a hiss of breath, clamping my jaw tight. The pain flares hotter as blood seeps into my sleeve, dampening the fabric against my skin.
Every particle of my body wants to yank away from the arrow, from the panel, from this whole wretched game. I lock my legs in place, waiting for the imperial heir’s—and his father’s—response.
Marclinus has swiveled to peer toward the source of the noise. My gaze finds Prince Raul standing farther back in our audience, lifting his hands in a gesture of apology, the feral glint in his eyes turning it into a lie. “Forgive my clumsiness, Your Imperial Highness. I knocked over one of the wine trays.”
His threatening words from last night come back to me. If they don’t tear you apart quickly enough, we’ll give you a good shove.
I don’t for one second believe that was an accident. The prince is making good on his ominous promise.
Uneasiness curdles in my stomach, but when Marclinus turns back to me, there’s a gleam in his eyes that might be appreciative. I’m not sure Raul’s gambit harmed my chances the way he was hoping.
“The court certainly can’t complain that you haven’t endured this trial with more fortitude than the other ladies required,” the imperial heir says in a wry tone. “One more shot, without any further disruptions please, and a medic will see to your arm.”
No apology from him. Not the slightest sign of regret that his absurd test could have ended with that arrow through my heart .
I push my mouth into an accommodating smile and wait out the last arrow above my head with only a brief skip of my heart.
There is a medic already waiting when I step away, a devout of Elox in the typical white robe. As she seals my arm with her gift for healing, I watch Fausta pose regally amid her three arrows.
Marclinus sets down his bow. His gaze slides along us assembled ladies, his mouth fixed in a smirk but his gray eyes hard as stone. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s taking pleasure in this announcement.
His voice is equally cool. “The lady with the weakest faith must be eliminated.” He glances toward Emperor Tarquin, who gives a tiny nod of confirmation, before going on. “Lady Timille, I’m afraid your lack of trust was quite dispiriting. We can’t let that stand.”
My gut lurches. The willowy woman claps her hand against her mouth to muffle a sob.
“No, please,” she babbles, stepping toward the imperial heir. “I can do better, I swear?—”
There’s nothing I can do. An imperial guard has already marched forward. I hold my face in a mask of perfect indifference.
Marclinus’s expression shows nothing but disdain as the man gouges open Timille’s throat.